


These are the Voyages of the SS Stan O' War II

by Isaac_Molotov



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adventure, Ghosts, Phrasing, Post-Weirdmageddon, The High Seas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaac_Molotov/pseuds/Isaac_Molotov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Weirdmageddon Mystery Stans adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bloody Maggie!

The SS Stan o’ War II chugged up to Hammond Head under inky, scudding clouds that masked the full moon behind them. Her engines were cut, and she sloshed gently against the dock. A shadow jumped from the fore and tied her in. It had been a near thing. A bolt or four in the hull had gone, and the pump had been running for a week. Four days ago, they’d run into a nasty North Atlantic storm, and they’d had just enough juice to keep the way on her as they crested and fell on forty foot waves. Krakens, syrens, and Scylla be damned, the sea itself was anomalous enough to keep the Pines twins on watch and watch, exchanging nothing more than grunts over their morning and evening meals since last Tuesday. God bless the Lighthouse Preservation Society, Easton, Getting, and Parkinson, thought Ford as he patted the GPS in his pocket and secured the boat with a double box. Nothing fancy. The Stan o’ War wasn’t going far, whether above water or below. 

The halt in progress had roused Stan, who found he now needed the rhythm of engine and waves to get and stay asleep. He emerged frowsty and squinting from below deck. 

“We finally make it in?” he asked, stretching and taking in the dark shadows and lit windows of the town ashore.

“Yes, about five minutes ago. We’re in Hammond Head, Maine, and judging by the number of watercraft we passed before I found somewhere to dock, I’m guessing we’ll be able to find anything we need for the boat, for ourselves, and for the rest of the trip on shore.”

“Right”, said Stan, “Wake me up in the morning and we’ll see what we see.”

Ford frowned. “Given the state of the hull, Stan, I wouldn’t recommend sleeping on board unless you want wet dreams.”

Stan’s rubbed his eyes. “Jesus, Ford. There is no way you just said that knowing what you actually just said. One of these days – in fact, the sooner the better – you and I are going to have a date with something called the actual English language.” 

Ford put his hands on his hips, “If you recall, I had perfect marks in Mrs. Latulips’ English class, grades nine through twelve, and I was an A+ student in English Lit 102 at Backupsmore.”

“Yeah, well,” Stan yawned, “There’s Mrs. Latulips’ English, and there’s what’ll get you punched in the face out back behind the bar. Lemme get some pants on, and I’ll come up.”

Dressed for shore, the two Pines strode up the dock with footfalls that echoed between plank and sea. They’d been out long enough to earn a wobble to their stride, which Stan thought looked badass, and which Ford was trying his best to correct. Where the dock met the boardwalk, a solitary figure was seated on a barrel, humming to himself and untangling a rope.

“Hootie toot toot toot, toodie toodie toodie toot, a drop of Nelson’s blood and farewell and adieu….”

“Excuse me, Sir.”, Ford said.

The man, dressed in a smelly wool overcoat and…was that a tricorn?...hurriedly plopped an eyepatch down over what Stan could have sworn a second ago was a perfectly decent eye and coughed a couple times before turning dramatically toward the pair and saying “Yarrrrrrrrrrrrr, and what would ye two land lubbers be wantin’ off an old sea dog at the witching hour of a moonless night?”

Ford tried to speak, but Stan had been cooped up with no outlet for a while and cut in, “Land lubbers?! Of all the nerve. Look at us! I can barely walk straight! We both have sideburns, and this,” he cried, yanking a pendant on a chain from underneath his sweater, “is the actual Deodoroc from Davie Jones’ Locker. For crying out loud, I’m wearing a watch cap. A WATCH CAP!” He pointed at his little knit beanie and the man on the barrel shied. 

Ford put a hand on Stan's chest to restrain him and attempted diplomacy.

“What- what my brother means, is..ahem…Arrrrrr….we’re seafaring men, noble and true. Our ship is in need of..uh..dry-docking and we…be wantin’..er…grub? and somewhere to…uh…kip?...bed down?..uh…bunk?”

“Arrr…You mean you need repairs to your ship and want some food and a place to sleep?” said the old man. 

“Precisely.” said Ford, abashed and hearing Mrs. Latulip tut in his head.

“Well, for your ship, I’d see Bernie up at the Harbourmaster’s, which you’ll be heading to anyway to pay your fees. For a meal and a bed, I’d say you head up to Batavia and Main, to the Happy Clem. The girl what runs it is a right odd bunny, but she can cook  
decent and pour a pint. Tell her Old Salty Jeff sent you and…well, she probably won’t let you in, so best not to mention we spoke.”

The Pines brothers looked at each other, shrugged, and made their way up to the small shack overlooking the port. Fees paid and a promise to take care of any structural issues aboard the Stan o’ War secured with a twenty percent deposit, the twins made their way up into town. Ford had his GPS to hand once again.

“Stanley, I know this is mundane for you, but I’ve seen this technology in other dimensions, and I never expected to see it back on Earth! The entire planet, mapped and available to anybody with one of these devices! Centimeter accuracy! Street names! When I…well, left…Earth was locked in a struggle for space supremacy, and now, satellite information from the Russians, the US, the Japanese, you can get it with the press of a button. I guess the Sci-Fi Tv Hour was right…”

“Okay, Star Dork, just get us to the hotel. I’m exhausted, and this town is giving me the creeps.”

For the first time, Ford really looked around. Fog was creeping up out of the sea, and the cloudy night turned otherwise friendly and colourful shake-sided buildings into looming monoliths. The chill in the air was what their mother called a lazy cold: it went right through you instead of around. Somewhere, a dog barked, and everything else was still. 

With the help of the GPS, they found Batavia and Main, and didn’t have to pause to find the corner they were looking for. A sign hung from the only lit building at the intersection, carved in wood, a winking, laughing man under the words “The Happy Clem”. The sign creaked on its chain, though there was no breeze.

“Well,” said Ford, smiling, “this looks cheery!”

“Cheery like an audit.” grumbled Stan, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I guess it’ll do.”

The two men pushed their way through the doors, spotted two vacant stools at the bar, and plopped themselves down. Stan’s muscle memory took over, and he leaned in to make eye contact with the bartender, a middle-aged, mousey woman in an overlarge sweater. He caught her eye and she nodded as she pulled a pint. After the back and forth of cash, change, tip, she walked over.

“What can I get for you two?”

Ford made to speak, but Stan interjected, “Whatever’s cheap!”

She lifted an eyebrow, went to the taps, and pulled two pints. Stan noticed that she managed to lay a decent head on a pissy beer. Ford noticed that she did it with her pinkies out. Both twins smiled. She plonked the glasses in front of them.

“Will you boys be looking for dinner?”

“Yes,” said Ford, “Dinner, and a room for the night.”

“Sorry, boys, but there’s no room in the inn. After that storm a week back, we’re full up with sailors waiting for repairs. Maybe try the Motel 7 up town?”

Stan’s face was unchanged as he gratefully gulped down his beer, but Ford’s brow furrowed.

“If you’re out of room, why is it that there’s still a key on the board behind you? For room…” he squinted, “thirteen.”

The woman’s eyes darted over her shoulder as the bar fell silent. She faced him and the muscles around her jaw tightened.

“We don’t normally rent that room.”

“Why not?” Ford asked, not picking up on the atmosphere. 

She frowned. “It’s not very comfortable. It’s not on the heat, and there’s no beds. A storage room, really.”

“Well,” said Ford cheerfully, “my brother and I don’t need much! We’ve been sleeping in hammocks for the past three weeks, and a hard floor would probably do us both a world of good. As for heat, we’re both dressed warmly, and can share body heat if need be!”

“Speak for yourself, Poindexter,” Stan muttered to a bar-wide chuckle.

“Well,” the woman said, “even then, there’s things about room thirteen you might not like.”

“Such as…?” Ford asked.

The woman beckoned them in close and lowered her voice to a whisper as the rest of the bar seemed to hush even more. “Room thirteen, boys? It’s haunted.”

Ford took a long draught of his pint and put it down firmly on the bar, much to the keeper’s surprise and said, “Well, if that’s all, my brother and I have experience dealing with all manner of the supernatural. If your haunting is causing you a nuisance, why, we can have your ghost expelled in five minutes flat. Just find us a mirror, silver if possible, and maybe a bag of salt, and you’ll be ghost-free by sun-up!”

The bartender looked horrified. “No, not that! Why would you…?” She composed herself and lowered her voice again. “Look, I can see that you’re not the average salts to be scared off by tales of ghosts and are, in fact, stubborn pains in the ass.” Stan grinned, “If you’re really in need of a room and are really acquainted with the weird, perhaps there’s something I can do for you.”

The Pines twins turned toward each other, smiled, and nodded back at her.

After they’d had a dinner of beer, bread, and what was presumably chowder, the barkeeper caught their eye and walked the two Pines up to the second floor, which, like the first, was wood-paneled and what a realtor would optimistically call ‘rustic’. 

“Look, if the two of you are fine staying overnight in a haunted room thirteen in a foggy New England town under a full moon after weeks at sea, then I suppose there’s not much you’re about to see that will shock you. Either you’re stone-cold skeptics with a nasty sense of humour, or you’ve been through something like this and you know what to do about it. There’s a ghost in this room, boys, and not a nice one.”

“A malevolent spirit?” asked Ford.

“The word I’d use is…frustrating,” said the woman, frowning to herself. “You’d best come in and let me introduce you.”

The room was bare, save a standing oval mirror in a corner by the window, which she took and placed near the centre of the far wall. From the closet, next to the door they’d entered through, she took a two-pound bag of salt and poured a circle around the mirror. She took Ford by the shoulder, placed him in one corner of the room, facing the mirror, poured a salt circle around him, then took Stan and placed him in the other corner facing the mirror, and, again, poured the salt. She replaced the bag in the closet, and stood facing the mirror, halfway between Stan and Ford, and began a chant.

To Ford, it sounded like a rap battle between Chaucer and John Dee. To Stan, it sounded like she was having a stroke. Both men frowned. The words ended and there was a pregnant pause. After barely a moment, the woman’s form began to lift from the floorboards and glow, dimly at first, but then blotting out the soft light from the bulb in the ceiling with a spectral green aura. Ford noticed with a start that the woman’s reflection in the mirror was unchanged, and had begun to speak, while her actual, now radiant, eyeless body hovered silently above the floor

“Ma!?”, said the reflection, “Ma, you there?”

Haltingly, disjointedly, the floating phantom looked up into the mirror and spoke in a voice like a Greek chorus stuck down an elevator shaft.

“Honey? Is that you? Well, it’s about time you got in touch. I don’t like to complain, but it’s been two weeks, and you know how lonely I get. You look like you’ve gained some weight, but I guess it’s Winter, and maybe boys these days like a girl with a big caboose? Like in that awful music you listen to. Have you got the accounts for the hotel all worked up for tax time? And, my word, who are these two handsome gentlemen? Don’t tell me my baby’s finally found someone to look after her? You know how your mother worries. And…are they twins?! Oh, sweetie, you know that’s genetic! You could give me twin grandbabies and make my afterlife twice as complete!”

The reflection of the barkeeper rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and turned to the Pines, dooming them with mock formality: “O brave seamen! Meet thy roommate, the fearsome spectre of the Happy Clem! My mother, Margaret.”


	2. That's bad luck, you know.

“Always so dramatic,” the ghost huffed and hovered closer to the wall where the Stans Pines stood at rigid attention. She held a limp, luminous hand out to each, pinkies out, “Margaret Collins, Proprietress. Enchantée.”

Ford slowly took the closest hand and jiggled it vaguely up and down, “Dr. Stanford Pines”.  

The ghost gasped and her bright, white eye sockets opened a fraction wider. She turned her head to the reflection of her daughter to exaggerate the word “DOCTOR” with her lips. The reflection frowned.

Not to be outdone, Stan collected himself and leaned over his circle of salt to plant a manly smooch on the second proffered hand before Ford could stop him. The snap and pain in his lips reminded him of the time he’d read his first and last issue of _Long-Cons Silver_  and attempted workflow optimization by fixing his alarm clock in the shower. He fell back and rubbed his mouth, “Stanley Pines,” he muttered, “entrepreneur and man of mystery.”

The ghost giggled. “Well. A doctor and a businessman! If I was ten years younger and not dead, you two boys would be in a world of trouble. Of course, you’ve met my daughter, Evelyn. Would you believe she’s forty-five years old? Everybody tells me she doesn't look a day over forty-two. Must be all that red wine!”

“Ma!” said Evelyn’s reflection, “Please try to focus. These men want to rent the room tonight. I know it’s asking a lot, but this time, do you think you could give everybody some privacy?”

The ghost rotated in midair to face the mirror and crossed her arms, “This time? My dear, I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, of course not, Ma. It’s not as though the last ‘gentleman’ who spent the night in this room couldn’t sleep for visions of a mysterious hag asking about his annual post-tax income and feelings about independent businesswomen.”

“Hag? Why, I never...well, if he was that sort of man, I’ll admit I shouldn’t have wasted my time, but you can’t blame a mother for trying, dear.”

“Actually, I can, Ma. I can, and I do. And if you actually cared how I this place was run, maybe you’d try haunting the ledger instead of playing creepy old woman Patrick Swayze with the customers, and _then_ maybe you’d realize that my bed is the last one you should be worried about filling!”

Silence seeped into the room like mist through the walls. Ford and Stan found themselves very, very interested in a large crack in the ceiling and pesky hangnail, respectively. The ghost’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, isn’t that a fine way of thanking your mother.” The reflection opened her mouth to speak, but the ghost carried on, “Your mother who’s done nothing but put you and this business first, every single day of her life and death. How _dare_ you.”  

The Pines slid apprehensive gazes back to the ghost as the room began to darken and shudder.

“I guess this is my fault for letting you take what you have for granted. You’re lucky your father isn’t here to listen to you, he’d have cleaned your clock, Missy. But, I guess now it’s up to me, and if you’re going to act like a spoiled child, perhaps your mother needs to start treating you like one.”

The air began to hiss and crack as white plasma arced from the floating figure, grounding on the floor, the ceiling, the walls, on transparent cylinders outlined by the salt. One streak anchored on the dented brass closet doorknob, rattled it, pulled it, and whipped it across the room.

For a second, the oval reflection in the mirror held, frozen and cobwebbed, arms raised in defense. The second passed, and the shattered glass slid to the floor.

As the smash subsided to occasional tinkling, the rest of the _spectacle_ _son et lumière_ died down to its previous ghostly hum and glow. The Evelyn Collins-clad Margaret Collins turned to the Pines with an air of triumph about her sockets and smiled ingratiatingly.

“You’ll have to excuse my daughter, gentlemen. She’s usually just lovely, but sometimes she gets worked up and needs to rest. Lots of energy and a big imagination for a woman her age! But a sturdy hard worker, and so good with numbers! Anyhow, if you two have any personal effects downstairs, feel free to bring them up. I’ll see to your room.”


	3. Through a glass, snarky.

Without taking their eyes off their hovering host, Stan and Ford backed slowly out of the room, only turning around once they’d heard the door click as Stan softly pulled it closed. Ford was about to make what his online research had told him would be a culturally-relevant quip about the speed with which the situation had escalated, when the door to number twelve opened across the hall. The words “Meat Golem” appeared unbidden in Ford’s mind, while reference to a well-built privy flashed across Stan’s.  The man in the doorway could have been a colossus of weathered marble from which a thick overgrowth of black brambles had been trimmed back erratically save two facts to the contrary: one, he was moving, and two, he was wearing a pair of bright pink shorts covered in little anchors. Wordlessly, he raised an index finger like a fuzzy bratwurst to the spot in his huge beard where his mouth probably was and made a sound like an inner-tube puncture before retreating into the darkness of his room. The door closed again.

“Sheesh,” Stan huffed, “Three hours on dry land and we’ve already got our first noise complaint. Welp, at least we don’t have to worry about him taking it to management. Come on, Ford, let’s get out of here.”

Ford shot him a frown.

“We can’t just leave now, Stan! We have to…to…well we should _do_ something.”

“Look, I signed up for weirdness, treasure, and babes, not for _Terms of Enchantment_.”

“I believe you mean  _Terms of Endearment_.”

“Yeah, you’d know, weirdo. Look, it was a ghost pun, and it didn’t pan out, okay? Everybody's a critic. Anyhow, the way I see it, you play around with creepy magic, you run the risk of getting trapped in a mirror by your dead mom. Let’s just grab our bags and get a room up at the Motel 7.”

Though he sounded hopeful, he knew he’d lost before he finished the sentence. Ford had fixed him with the you’re-better-than-this-Stanley-Pines-and-you-and-I-both-know-it look he’d inherited from their mother, and held it until Stan rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a picture of weary defeat.

“Fine, fine. We’ll stay in the haunted seaside inn, send Norma Bates into the light, and save her spooky daughter from mirrorland. Is that what you want me to say? Cause I’m saying it, and if one of us winds up trapped behind the looking glass or married to a ghost, it’s gonna be your fault for giving me that look!”

Ford grinned, and then shot a worried glance at the door of number twelve. He whispered, “Strategy session. The bar”, and tiptoed down the stairs. Stan rolled his eyes and followed at normal volume. The bar was now deserted, save one customer who, from his bulbous red nose and glassy eyes, Stan guessed was a regular. He looked up hopefully  as they entered the room, then with disappointment when he saw their faces.

“Oh, er, hi there. Thought…thought you might be Evie.” He turned his glass mug upside-down and shook it “I’m dry.”

“Oh I’ll bet,” muttered Stan to himself, then raised his voice “Sorry pal, time to leave. Bar's shut down for the night.”

“R-really? That’s not like Evie. I haven’t even settled up. She’ll-she'll be back. I’ll wait.”

“Look buddy,” said Stan, “You can settle up tomorrow, the barkeep isn’t coming back. She, uh, she’s uh…”

“She’s premenstrual.”

Stan and the customer both looked at Ford in horror.

“Yes, indeed. Her menses will be commencing within the next seven to fourteen days, and she’s currently experiencing bloating, abdominal cramps, headaches, painful swelling of the breasts, mild to moderate dysphoria, constipation…”

The customer held his hands up in front of his blanched face and muttered “Okay, okay” drily before grabbing his wallet off the bar and staggering out the door as fast as his wobbly legs would take him.

Stan crossed the bar, locked the door, and turned to look at Ford with a combination of revulsion and respect.

“What?”

“Jesus, Ford, how is it that a guy who knows absolutely nothing about women know so much about…women?”

Ford turned red from his collar to his hairline. “High School Prom. Jessica Mathers. The punch incident. Remember how you told me I had a lot to learn about women? Well, I thought you were probably right.”

“So?”

“So, a weekend with a good set of encyclopedias will teach you a lot about women,” he paused. “Not how to speak to them, oddly.”

Stan shook his head and chuckled. “Well, we have the place to ourselves now, what’s the plan?” He sat down on one of the barstools and Ford followed suit.

“First, we need to find out the nature and origin of the incantation used to invoke the possession. Once I know the spell, I’ll have a better idea of how or if I can reverse it. After we remove the intruding spirit from Ms. Collins' body, we’ll have to find a way get her own spirit back in. I have a couple ideas, but… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. First, the spell,”  Ford grabbed a napkin and started doodling symbols and letters with a pen from his jacket. “It sounded like a combination of early Middle English and Latin, possibly with some Akkadian, although I’m a bit rusty...”

“Oof, where does a lady barkeep in Podunk, Maine get her hands on something like that?”

“Crystalunicornblessings.blogspot.com.”

Both men looked up to where the voice had come from. In the mirror behind the bar, her shoulders just clearing the row of colourful bottles arranged in front of it, was Evelyn Collins, hotelieuse, late of her body.

"Geez, lady," said Stan, grabbing his chest, "you trying to give a guy a heart attack? Glad you're not dead, by the way."

“What was that about the spell?” asked Ford, shushing Stan.

“I found it online, I was messing around looking up ghost stuff, and I figured it was worth trying. There was nothing about reversing it...not that I really checked. It hasn’t been an issue.”

“Until now,” grumbled Stan. “Look, lady, I’m not even the smart twin, and I know better than to mess around letting other people into your head. Been there, done that, got hives from the space-wool turtleneck.”

Evelyn’s reflection looked at him doubtfully

“It’s a long story, but the upshot is, bodies are like cars. Don’t lend ‘em out unless you’re okay getting ‘em back with a few dents in the bumper and all the seat settings changed.”

“I think what my brother is trying to say is that possession and the summoning of spirits are both very dangerous pastimes, and should not be undertaken lightly using spells from...crystalunicornblessings.blogspot.com. You’re lucky your mother didn’t destroy more than a mirror back there.” 

“You don’t understand, she’s not normally like that. Well, not usually.”

“But these outbursts have been getting more frequent, haven’t they?”

Evelyn frowned, but nodded.

“That’s not unusual, I’m afraid. Spirits aren’t supposed to remain in the corporeal world after death, and certainly shouldn’t be allowed inside a body. They become degraded, stretched thin, and with time, _completely_ _insane_. What may have been tolerable personality defects during the person's life become magnified, until there’s nothing else left. Given this, I’m guessing your mother was a bit…opinionated?”

Evelyn snorted, “Good guess.”


	4. No, YOU'RE a wall of expository narrative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear it picks up after this.

Ford spread both his hands on the slightly sticky wood of the bar and took a deep breath.

“Ms. Collins, I understand why you were hesitant to accept the offer I made earlier this evening. However, I hope subsequent events have shown you that the current state of affairs at the Happy Clem cannot continue. Tonight, you’ve been trapped outside of your body, which is fixable. But my brother and I aren’t always going to be here, and who knows what could happen in a week, in a month, in a year. I’ll get you back in your own body, even without your full cooperation, but I strongly suggest that you also allow me to help your mother move on, if not for your sake, then for hers. If you don’t, I can guarantee that things will get uglier.”

Evelyn’s reflection crossed her arms and frowned. When she spoke, her voice was serious.

“Will she know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When you’ve done what you need to do to help her ‘move on’, will she know that she’s been kicked out? That I’ve forced her to leave?”

Ford looked taken aback.

“I-honestly, I don’t know.”

He said it like someone trying to get a handle on a new language. Stan started patting his pockets.

“I have a phone in here somewhere that makes recordings. Gimme a second, then would you say that again?”

“Look,” continued Ford, “you’re asking me if there’s an afterlife. There’s a limit to what's scientifically knowable. Most research says probably not, but you can't prove a negative. It's possible that your mother will remember what happens here tonight. It's possible that she won't.” He paused. “Either way, do you think the mother you knew would want things to keep going on the way they are? And, if she did, would that make her someone you want to humor?”

The reflection took a deep breath.

“Okay, Dr. Phil, If I decide that you’re right, what do we do?”

Ford blinked.

“Actually, Ma'am, it's 'Pines', but I understand you might be feeling a bit confused, what with all the,” he gestured up and down the length of her reflection. “No matter, I have some books that may be useful, as well as my own notes on possession and exorcism, plus a few…other things in my locker back on the boat. I'll bring them here, and the three of us together should be able to devise a way to expel Mrs. Collins from your body, allowing you back in, and remove her from the premises. Stan, if you’ll wait with Ms. Collins, it shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get down to the dock and back. Then, we can devise a plan.”

Evelyn’s reflection shrugged in submission, while Stan said, “Less walking? Works for me.” Ford nodded at them both, made his way across the bar, unlocked the door, and vanished into the foggy night. Stan unhurriedly followed in his footsteps, once again turning the deadbolt, and walked back to his stool, where he sat down and fixed his hostess with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re looking at me like you need a drink. Believe me, Sailor, I’d love to, but…” she knocked on the glass of the mirror.

“Don’t worry about it. But, you and me both know that wasn’t what I was getting at. Look, my brother is a real smart guy. Probably a genius. And, people like him? Well, they think that everyone else is just as dumb as they let on. Me, though? I’m a salesman, and a salesman reads people right or he goes broke, winds up in jail, or both. And, as far as I can tell, you’re not stupid."

"Thanks."

"Lemme finish. You're running a joint full of sailors, creeps, and drunks. You gotta know who to serve and who to put on ice. No stupid risks. So, what I want to know is, why would a lady like that start 'messing around with ghost stuff' out of the blue, and how does she wind up communing with the spirit of her maybe not so dearly departed mother?”

The bartender looked at him with dawning respect.

“I take back what I said about wanting to get you a drink, but I stand by my earlier comment about pains in the ass.”

Stan grinned, leaned over the bar to grab a glass and filled it to the brim from one of the taps. He took a few grateful swallows, chonked the glass down on a leftover coaster, leaned onto the bar with one arm and rested his slightly foamy face on his fist.

“So, why don’t you tell me all about it?”

The barkeeper in the mirror smiled.

“You’re a natural. If you ever get tired of sailing with Captain Columbo, maybe you could come tend bar here part time. Well, hey, why not? You’re just passing through, right? For once I’ll pour my heart out across the bar. If I had hands, I could make a clumsy pass, just to get the full customer experience.” She wiggled her fingers menacingly and Stan laughed.

“Okay, so you want to know about me and Marge upstairs? I’ll start at the beginning. The Happy Clem is named after my grandfather, Clement Collins, who started the place up when he came home from Germany in the 50s," she pointed up at a black and white portrait of a dashing man in a bomber's fight gear hanging over the bar, "He ran it until he died about twenty-five years later. They figure he just up and walked off Hammond Point one day. His body washed up by the docks about a week later. We kept the name, though. 'The Post-Traumatically Stressed Clem' doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

“Might sell more of the harder stuff, though.” countered Stan, who took a long drink.

“After Clem took up cliffdiving, the business passed to his son, my father, Thomas.”

She paused momentarily, as if she'd given him his cue. Behind Stan's eyes, the penny dropped.

“A bartender named ‘Tom Collins’? That’s rich.”

Evelyn sighed, “If you can believe it, you’re not the first person to notice. Sometimes I wonder if hearing the same joke fifty times a week got to be too much. Anyway, dear father married dockworker's daughter and three-time Hammond Head Fish Festival Lobster Queen, Margaret Collins, nee: Loftis, whom you’ve met. Shortly after Margaret gave him the blessing of a daughter, Dad went out to place the weekly bar order and still hasn't come back. She must have looked for him, because she eventually got him declared dead, making her full owner of all you see before you. Ma was determined to make this place work. And I guess, in her head, that meant having a daughter who worked, too.

Stan stroked his stubble, “I think I can see where this is going. Parent has high standards. Kid tries hard, but can never meet ‘em. Relationship goes sideways. Things get said. Parent dies, kid feels guilty. Kid comes home and resurrects parent as body-snatching horror from beyond the veil.”

“I get that the last part doesn’t seem to follow, but you don’t understand. I never came home, because I never left. Looking back, I probably should have run screaming as soon as I learned to pack a lunch. But this is my home and Ma, well, Ma has a way of making you feel like you don’t have much of a choice. I did walk out though. For a whole night.  It was about twelve years ago. Along with the usual life coaching, Ma had been on my case about getting one of the rooms fixed up. We were having a bad month, it was the middle of a heat wave, and I finally snapped. I told her that I’d had enough and that I was leaving.  I remember exactly what she said, ‘does every Collins just walk out on their problems?’.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. I honestly didn’t think I was coming back. But I cooled off overnight in a hotel with AC and walked home the next morning. I didn’t look for her. I was still mad as hell, and I didn’t want to see her. It wasn’t until I found out we’d rented room thirteen, the one with the repairs, and I went to check what still needed to be done that I found her. She’d been changing a lightbulb, fell off the stepladder, and hit her head. The doctors said she didn’t go right away, but probably wouldn’t have made it if even if she’d had help, so that's something. Still, alone on the floor.”

Stan looked down at the bar, and started pushing pools of condensation around, “Jeez. That's rough. I’m sorry about your mom, but, well, you can’t blame yourself for that.”

Evelyn looked across at him blankly. “I don’t. We had a fight, I left and an accident happened _._ I can’t blame myself for that, I’d go crazy. But I do blame myself for every day before that. When I took over this place, I realized just how much _work_ it was. Running a bar and a hotel and raising a kid? With next to no help? No wonder she’s the way she is. She was doing her best, and I didn’t thank her once, and by the time I realized it, she was gone.”

“Woof. Well, I guess I can see why maybe you’d want to clear the air. But, still, isn't the whole necromancy thing taking it a little far?”

“You're making it sound like she was just resting in peace and I summoned her here. I’m not a genius like your brother, but as far as I can tell, these things take two to tango. Ma was haunting that room for _years_ before I figured out how to talk to her. We were renting it out at a discount. You couldn’t get a bulb in the overhead socket for more than five minutes without it exploding. I had the wiring redone twice. Anybody who _did_ spend the night suffered for weeks after with an uncontrollable urge to tuck their shirt in and sit up straight. And then there was the blood rain, the mariachi clams…”

“Alright, I get it. Haunted. And you figured out the whole stereo sound act.  So, why not just thank her, make her feel appreciated, and then ask if she’s considered retirement?”

Evelyn sighed, “Every time, I told myself that was how it would go. But we…I guess we just fell into old habits. Management and labor. And this way, I didn’t have to _tell_ her how I felt, I could show her. Things were actually going really well until…”

“Until she stole your body and tried to kill you.”

“Yeesh, I was going to say until last month when she gave my cell number to the manager of a travelling gerbil circus, but yours works too.”


	5. A Stan, a plan...

“Gerbil circus, huh? Well, at least if profits were down, the employees would work for _peanuts!_ ” Stan paused for laughter that didn’t come. “…for _peanuts!_ Get it? Peanuts? ‘Cause they’re basically rats that eat anything...? Sheesh, tough crowd.”

“You joke, but I'll have you know the talent were fed a strict gluten-free hemp-millet based diet with distilled, deionized water, supplemented by stone fruit only as treats for positive reinforcement during training.”

Stan gave the woman in the mirror a concerned look.

“We went on _one_ date, ok? It was Valentine's Day and he didn’t seem _that_ weird up front. Yes, it turned out he actually _was_ that weird, but I did learn a lot about gerbils. For instance, did you know that ‘gerbil’ is the diminutive form of –“

She was interrupted by the soft, but unmistakable sound of over-careful footfalls coming from the second-floor staircase. Stan put a finger to his lips and slipped one hand into his coat pocket. It emerged gripping an impressive set of brass monkeys. They both waited in tense silence as the steps came nearer. Stan relaxed again when a muttered “curses!” floated down to the first floor after an an ear-rending creak. He rolled his eyes and called up the stairs.

“Just come down, Poindexter, we don’t have all night.”

The footsteps picked up in pace, and Ford appeared in the doorway between the bar and the second floor entrance clutching a black bag and looking chagrined. He shook an index finger at Evelyn.

“You really should take a little more pride in your business, Ms. Collins. Far be it from me to be critical of your housekeeping, but customers do notice that sort of thing. Any creaking could be easily fixed with shims between the treads and stringers at the offending steps.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. But, maybe I like noticing when somebody’s trying to sneak down to the bar after close. How on earth did you get up to the second floor, anyway?”

“That’s between me, a pistol-mounted six-Tesla electromagnet, and your second-story restroom security bars. You’re…going to need some new security bars on the second-story restroom, by the way. But, that's a small price to pay for the knowledge that my infiltration and stealth technique remain almost untarnished despite months of disuse.”

“So, what happened to your coat?” Stan gestured toward an elongate, lightly-smouldering hole on the shoulder of Ford’s jacket.

“Ah, yes. That. Well.  Infiltration and stealth technique do occasionally result in unfortunate mishaps. Particularly in the presence of welders. My fault for not having this coat plasma-proofed when I had the chance. But, I did manage to collect everything we could possibly need from the ship. Repairs are going well, incidentally.”

Ford crossed to the bar and placed his bag on top of it. Objects unseen rattled and clanked within. He undid the silver hasp, and reverently lifted out a yellowed and curled stack of papers bound in rough twine. “Here it is. All of the research I managed to do on possession and spirits following my…departure.  Spells, incantations, hexes, talismans, sigils, it's all here.”

Evelyn’s reflection pressed herself up to the glass of the mirror in an effort to see. “Are you saying you’ve written a grimoire?”

Ford chuckled to himself, “Grimoire-or-less.”

Evelyn winced. “Jesus, you two really _are_ twins.”

Stan, not to be left out, was poking around in his brother’s bag. “What the heck is this?” He held up two aerosol cans. “Looks like roach spray.”

Ford made a grab for the cans, but Stan jerked them away, stood up, and paced in front of the bar as he read, “’The Ex-Spectre-Ator: Your ghosts are toast! Directions: Apply liberally to problem area, cursed object, or affected loved one. Shake well before use. Caution: store in a cool, sanctified place. Not for use on relics or other remains. Test on an inconspicuous area of object or person first. If possession continues longer than sun-down on the third day, seek qualified spiritual help.’ Ford, what the hell _is_ this stuff?”

Ford had gone back to leafing through his dusty papers. “In some dimensions, hauntings and possession are fairly common. They’re considered more of an inconvenience, like termites or mind-weevils, rather than something to get worked up about. And, as you know better than most, when a need exists, the market obliges. The difference between you and me, however, is that my products actually work as intended.”

“Wait, are you saying…” Stan turned one of the cans over. The front was decorated with a familiar six-fingered logo in gold. “’Sixer Brand: Your Helping Hand’.”

Ford glanced up from his reading and smiled, “I came up with the tag-line myself.”

Stan appraised the bottles more closely, shook one next to his ear, removed the cap, took a sniff, and wrinkled his nose. “Well, Ford, I didn’t know you had it in you, but I gotta say I’m impressed. He glanced left and right and lowered his voice, “You making any dough off this stuff?”

Ford looked at his brother affectionately, “How did you think I could afford a boat, Stanley? Once the company was running itself, I sold it off for – well, let’s say a hefty sum, which has been wisely invested in the pandimensional stock market. Infinite dimensions, infinite outcomes, seven percent compound annually.”

Evelyn tapped the mirror glass, “Hey, you’re not going to use that on my mother, are you? It's just, I have sensitive skin. Anything with fragrance, and I break out like Dillinger.”

Ford swiveled his stool back to face the mirror, “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. In most cases, one merely has to incapacitate the vessel. That causes the bond between the physical form and the intruding spirit, which is usually tenuous to begin with, to break, allowing the original owner to repossess, as it were. When was the last time you slept?”

“I had a quick nap just before check-in at two.”

“Hm. We likely won’t be able to just wait your mother out, then. Unless you don’t mind remaining where you are for a day or so?”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Then we’ll have to think of some other, quicker way to sever the bond between spirit and body. Are you ticklish?”

"Uh. No."

"Yes, well, that would have been awkward, anyway. Ms. Collins, I'm afraid we've arrived in the realm of more...percussive options."

"I beg your pardon?"

Stan placed the two aerosol cans firmly on the bar, slid his hands into his pockets, brought out the first set of brass knuckles, followed by its twin. He cracked his neck to one side and rammed his watch cap down more firmly on his head. “Leave it to me.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened, “Do I get a say in this, because I have some concerns about the plan.”

Ford fixed his brother with a stern look and shook his head. “Ms. Collins is right, those are completely unsafe, Stanley.”

Stan’s shoulders sank. Ford rummaged in his bag and brought out duplicates of his brother’s weapons in black. He placed them on the bar with a soft click and slid them to Stan. “These are made from a light-weight, high-density, shatter-proof poly-carbon plastic resin. One hundred percent non-conductive. Last time you came into contact with Mrs. Collins, I could smell the ozone. These should work just fine, though.”


	6. Mickey Finnesse

“Excuse me!”

Staccato tapping on the mirror behind the bar caught the brothers’ attention.

“If it’s all the same to the two of you, I’d really prefer to get myself back the way I left me. I have enough soft spots as it is without Sonny Liston here adding my skull to the list.”

Ford blushed, “Ms. Collins, unless you can think of a more expedient way to incapacitate a half-senile class seven manifestation in possession of a well-rested, presumably healthy - if allegedly soft body…”

Evelyn glanced left and right, leaned in as conspiratorially as one can from behind glass, and gestured at Stan. Her voice was hushed.

“Your brother was saying earlier that a good bartender knows who to serve and who to throw out. He’s right, but sometimes it's more...complicated. Most of the young guys who come in here begging for a fight draw the line at slugging someone who looks like their mom, so they’re easy. But every once in a while, somebody comes through that door with a look in their eye that makes the hair on your neck stand up. There's no tough guy act, there's no posing. They just sit by themselves and stay quiet. And when they look at you, every bit of monkey left in your brain wakes up and tells you to run away and climb the biggest, tallest tree you can find. When you get one those, the best thing you can do is serve them fast and serve them lots and hope to god they pass out before they snap. And if there’s a way you can make sure that happens, you take it.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Open the cash register," she continued, "It should be unlocked.”

“Security’s tight,” Stan remarked, walking around the bar.

“Look, we’re in Hammond Head, Maine, not Gotham. Just open the register.”

There was a ding as he obeyed.

“The slot for the twenties has a sliding false bottom. It should be in there.”

Stan stood up from the register examining a small, white plastic bottle labelled in red Cyrillic.

“I get it from some Russians who come in to work the crab boats. I think it’s some kind of weapons-grade cough syrup, but if you mix it with booze it’s liquid coma.”

Ford spoke up, “So, if I understand correctly, you’re suggesting we administer this to your mother. In an alcoholic beverage. And, how exactly are we going to do that? I hardly think she’s just going to drink anything we hand her.”

Stan, who had been rummaging around below the bar, stood up holding a screw-top magnum of the house red and three stemmed glasses. A bulge in his coat pocket showed where he’d slipped the other bottle.

“Maybe not whatever _you_ hand her, Casanerda, but you know what they say: when the student is ready, the master appears. Looks like it's time for lesson one: the soft sell.”


	7. The soft sell

Stan and Ford paused at the top of the stairs. From an inner pocket of his coat, Ford produced a small, flat, hinged box. As he opened it, Stan noticed that the inner surface of the lid was lined with some kind of reflective material. Ford held it up at the correct angle to peer just over his left shoulder. The reflection of the hallway behind him contained precisely one more person than was, in fact, physically present.

“When was the last time you washed that coat?” the extra woman asked, “Your pockets smell like corn chips.”

“Ms. Collins, believe me, if it wasn’t vital to have you in close proximity to your physical form after vacancy, I would have been more than happy to leave you downstairs. The fewer people who witness this, the better. However, if you can stand my squalor for a few more minutes, I think we’re about to get started.  Are you ready?”

“Ready to listen to two senior citizens ply my mother with liquor so she can unknowingly drug me? I suppose I’m as ready as I’m going to be.” She craned her head in an effort to put eyes on Stan. “Just don’t be gross, okay?”

Ford flipped the box closed.

“What is that thing, anyway?” Stan asked, as Ford slid it back into his pocket

“Oh, just a little something that’s come in handy for intergalactic visual teleconferencing.

“What, like some kind of space walkie-talkie communicator gizmo?”

Ford straightened his collar. “It’s a compact of translucent pressed powder, Stanley. Nobody wakes up camera-ready.” He pushed the door to room thirteen open and walked purposefully inside before his brother had a chance to reply.

The room appeared…well, certainly different from the last time they were inside. The previously bare floor and walls were occupied by the decor one would expect in a cheap hotel in a small east-coast town - right down to the faux wood bas relief of a pipe-smoking fisherman with a weird eye and the replica ship made from driftwood, shells, and other beach detritus sitting on the dresser. On either side of the room, there was a twin bed with lumpy pillows and a turned down, threadbare quilt. Stan knew in his heart of hearts that between the quilt and the scratchy sheets, he’d find what he simply called The Blanket. The Blanket, familiar to all drifters of the twentieth century. The Blanket, with its silky rayon trim and body that somehow combined the scratchiness of wool with all the warmth of a banker’s smile.

In spite of its sheer ordinariness, something was off about the room. Something that had nothing to do with the glowing, eyeless spectre hovering by the window smiling at them. The edges of the furniture seemed to shine as if they were out of focus. A qualified television repairman, observing the scene at a remove, would have recommended a new convergence circuit. A qualified psychic would have recommended a closed-casket service.

The two men looked at their hostess as she spoke.

“I’ve put fresh sheets on the beds, and fresh beds on the room. And there’s towels in the closet.” She glanced at Ford, who was carrying his black bag. “Well, well, Dr. Pines, I see you travel light.” She looked over to Stan, who had his hands behind his back. “And I see that you were too busy getting to know my Evie downstairs to even remember your luggage.”

Stan’s eyes widened. Margaret Collins tossed a hand at him in a dismissive gesture.

“Oh, you don’t get to be my age without knowing a thing or two about what’s going on under your own roof. I know Evie’s safe and fine, and I know you had a little chat, and Lord knows, it's about time she got all that out of her system. And don’t worry, she’ll get her privileges back as soon as I’ve finished getting everything on track around here. And then maybe you two can get to know each other a little better," she winked.

Stan the salesman saw his in, and took it.

“Well, Margaret…may I call you Margaret? I'm not exactly  _worried_. The way I see it, you running this place the way you are is the best of both worlds. I mean, you’ve got it all: the experience of age, the energy of a woman twenty years younger, and the power of an eldrich supernatural nightmare.”

“Mister Pines, you’re making me blush.”

“Please, call me Stanley.” He produced the wine and glasses from behind his back. “My brother and I were wondering if you’d like to join us for a glass of...” he glanced at the label on the bottle “…uh…red.”

The ghost raised an eyebrow. “Mister Pines - ”

“Please. Stanley.”

“Well, then, Stanley. It’s not really proper for a woman to take liquor in a strange man’s room after dark, even if that man's as handsome and sweet as you.”

Ford barely suppressed an involuntary shudder.

“Margaret, believe me, I wouldn’t ask, but it’s a special occasion.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, real special. It’s the two-hour anniversary of us meeting Margaret Loftis, three-time Hammond Head Fish Festival Lobster Queen, and the most beautiful woman in Maine. Something like that doesn't happen everyday.”

The ghost simpered. “Well, if you’re going to twist my arm...”

Stan winked at her as he snapped the screw-top on the bottle. Just as he was about to pour, he looked over Margaret Collin’s shoulder at the wall.

“Hey, out of curiosity, is that panelling yew?”

The ghost turned her head. Ford would have missed it if he hadn’t known it was coming. Stan, with the speed and legerdemain you only get from cheating at games where cheaters lose a whole lot more than their entry fee, slipped the smaller bottle out of his pocket, poured about half of it into Margaret’s glass, slipped it back in and topped the oily liquid off with wine. She turned back to him.

“To be honest, I think it’s particle board with a veneer. I hope that’s not a problem?”

Stan held out her glass, but didn’t let go when she took it. Instead, he drew her close.

“No, it’s just that…” he fixed her with hooded eyes “I’ve become awfully fond of yew.”

Margaret giggled. Ford tried, but failed to suppress an involuntary groan.

“Is your brother okay?”

“Sure, sure,” said Stan, pouring two more glasses, “he’s just had a long day, and he needs to take off his make-up.”

Ford shot daggers from his eyes as Stan handed him a glass.

“A toast,” said Stan, as he raised his wine, “to Margaret and Evelyn Collins, and the Happy Clem! May…er…may no more of its owners jump off a cliff!”

The ghost looked down into her glass. Margaret Collins, ego, would have sipped her wine. But the biological imperative of her daughter Evelyn, superego, who had spent the better part of the past hour decorating a hotel room with her mother took over, and she chugged it in one go.

“Well,” she said, smiling through a wince, “the house red certainly has more…body than I remember,” before she fell to the floor like a sack of lead potatoes.

 


	8. Lefty Loosie

The busted-CRT aura tinging the edges of the room slowly seeped away, while the newly-conjured furniture and decor snapped back out of existence. Ford and Stan, each still holding their wine, stared at the prone figure on the floor. A halo of shattered glass made her look just the tiniest bit like Sarah Brightman after a very, very rough live show indeed.

The seconds ticked by. Stan and Ford stared on.

“Sheesh, how long is this gonna take?” Stan yawned, scratched himself, and poked the body with the toe of his boot. Ford frowned and drew his coat sleeve back to expose a series of instruments strapped to his left wrist. Presumably, one of them showed the time, as his frown deepened. He did a smoker’s pat-down and eventually withdrew a pink compact from one of his many pockets. He flipped it open.

A woman’s reflection peered back at him from the small, circular mirror in the lid. A very brief silence elapsed while each waited with trepidation for the other to deliver some kind of news. Finally, the woman spoke.

“Since I’m still looking at you through a thin dusting of ‘tan neutral’, I’m guessing something out there went wrong.”

“Ms. Collins, everything out here went perfectly. I have a newfound appreciation for my brother’s complete lack of moral compass and for the potency of Russian antitussive pharmaceuticals. Your mother – that is to say, your corporeal form – is resting comfortably on the floor, and all supernatural activity appears to have powered down. You should be able to reclaim your physical self any time now. What normally happens when your body is vacated?”

Evelyn paused to consider before answering.

“Mostly, it’s like falling asleep. I start to drift, everything goes black, and then, suddenly I wake up with an extra dimension and a splitting headache. To answer your next question, no, I don’t feel any of that happening. So what the heck is going on?”

Ford shrugged.“If you’ll give me a moment, I think I’d better consult my notes. Stan, would you take Ms. Collins?”

With an impressive degree of self-control, Stan merely made a mental note to move up his talk with Ford. His face carefully blank, he took the proffered compact. Ford placed his wine glass on the floor and walked over to the black bag he’d left near the wall. He withdrew a sheaf of papers and riffled through them for a minute before finding what was apparently the page he wanted. He skimmed the crabbed writing covering it, muttering to himself.

“Spirit possession…before the third day…yadda yadda…exorcise the spectre…yes, yes, we know that..wait. Bright light of dispossession? Banish the ghost?” He paused in thought, then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Idiot! It makes perfect sense!”

Stan, along with Evelyn’s reflection, which he’d kindly pointed outwards to provide a clear view of the room, both frowned.

“Would you mind filling us in?” she asked.

Ford strode toward the woman on the floor, crouched and took her pulse at the wrist, jotting notes on a small steno pad balanced one knee as he explained, “You and your mother are related.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Well, I should hope so.”

“And what’s more,” he pulled up each of the woman’s eyelids and continued making notes, “from some of the pointed remarks you’ve both made, I’m guessing she raised you, mostly on her own?”

“Give the man a prize!" she said. "Now, given that earth-shattering discovery, what exactly does any of this have to do with removing my mother’s rapidly degrading post-death consciousness from my drugged body?”

“Neural pathways.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Setting aside the nature or nurture debate, given that both processes, under the circumstances, could be responsible for what we’re observing here, your brain and your mother’s brain – prior to her death, of course – likely shared quite a bit in common. Connections between different loci. Neural pathways. With most possessions, the link between the mind and the intrusive spirit is tenuous. Think of… think of a left-handed person trying to use a pair of right-handed scissors. It’s possible, but it requires focus, and the result isn’t pretty. Under those conditions, rendering the host unconscious is enough to break the link between the physical and spiritual. But with a closely related mind and spirit - ”

“You’re saying that, for my mom, my body is like...”

“Lefty scissors. Your brain is a relatively good fit for her consciousness. Simply knocking you out isn’t going to be enough to cause dispossession.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stan interjected, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “so, what you’re saying is the plan didn’t work, and soon we’re gonna have an unhinged, angry, and _hungover_ ghost on our hands? Ford, please tell me you’re reconsidering the Motel 7.”

Ford, meanwhile, had returned to his black bag, and was searching through its unseen contents.

“I don’t think we’ll have to go _that_ far. I may have a back-up plan”

“Oh, thank God,” muttered Stan.

“But…well, you may not like it.  And I mean both of you. Stanley. Ms. Collins.”

Stan and Evelyn both assumed wary looks as Ford continued his hunt. He finally emerged with a small, leather-bound book and a worn scrap of paper covered in runes

“Ah ha! The Magister Mentium and the Module of the Snake People!”

  


	9. Foo and Bar

“Magister Mentium?”

“Snake People?”

Stan and Evelyn’s apprehensive looks deepened. Ford, oblivious, was once again rummaging in his bag, withdrawing a growing pile of greasy white candle ends and finally, a length of baling twine, which he snapped in two. He began arranging the candles into a large circle on the floor.

“Stan, you’re already familiar with some of this, which will be useful. To bring you up to speed, Ms. Collins, the Magister Mentium is an incantation I devised to grant a person access to minds possessed by a very powerful transdimensional entity named Bill.”

Evelyn lifted an eyebrow, “Bill?”

“Precisely. It’s been…well, field-tested in an incident that doesn’t bear going into at the moment. Suffice to say, we know it works. It stands to reason it should also allow infiltration of minds possessed by other forces.”

“Like insane ghost-mothers?”

“Like insane ghost-mothers. In theory, it should make it possible for you to enter your own mindscape, find your mother’s spirit, convince her to depart this mortal coil, and reclaim control of your body.”

With the well-honed acumen of a practiced shyster, Stan caught the most important clause in his brother’s sentence.

“Wait. _In theory?_ What’s the catch?”

The circle complete, Ford stood up and dusted himself off.

“The catch is that the Magister Mentium requires physical contact between subjects. This presents us with something of a logistical problem, given Ms. Collin’s current…er…status. Not, however, one we cannot overcome with a little help from our friends, the Snake People.

Evelyn rubbed her temples, “I was wondering when the Snake People were coming in. So, are you going to tell me that all the nutjobs on the internet are right, and the world is secretly ruled by an upper class of reptilians who use their advanced culture and technology to control the media, global events, and all our minds?”

Ford blinked.

“No. Clearly that’s ridiculous.”

“Oh. Uh…good.”

“The Snake People are an enlightened and peaceful species who would never consider taking over a planet without the permission of its sentient lifeforms.”

Evelyn sighed, “I see. I’d make a joke about being through the looking glass, but it’s late and I’m tired and I want my body back. So, Snake People. Lay it on me.”

Ford picked the dusty, old book up off the floor and leafed through its pages reverently.

“The Snake People, the most ancient and learned species in the Unukalhai System, perhaps in all of Serpens Caput, Dimension 1§98', after many years of collective research, developed a series of spells. Really, you could think of it as more of a language, with its own internal logic, elegant in its simplicity. When correctly applied, the possibilities it opens for manipulating the physical, spiritual, and mental realms are absolutely unprecedented.” Ford stroked a page of the book, “After many years spent negotiating and earning their trust, I was allowed to prepare this, the only written copy of that language.”

Ford withdrew the two pieces of baling twine from his pocket and approached Stan and Evelyn.

“Now, I’m afraid this is the part of the plan the two of you might not like. Stan, Evelyn requires physical form to use the Magister Mentium. You…have an ample supply. One of the most powerful spells in this book allows the addition of knowledge, memories, and even an entire consciousness into an existing mind with a few simple words.”

Stan backed away from his twin, one hand balled into a fist, the other still holding the compact.

“Ohhh no you don’t. I’ve had more than enough people waltzing around my head changing the seat settings for one lifetime. This noggin is closed for business. Nope. No way.”

“I promise it will be temporary. Five minutes, tops. Of course, seeing as you'll both be saying the incantation, the two of you will likely wind up in Ms. Collins' mindscape together, but once she wakes up, that should resolve itself...”

The woman in the mirror raised her hands, palms outward, “As much as I’ve always wondered how it would feel to be an older gentleman who’s spent the last month eating Spam and not showering, I also have some issues with this idea.”

“Ms. Collins, there really is no other way. Your mother could wake up at any moment, and our chances of convincing her to leave peacefully will likely have dwindled as a result of Plan A. Yes, it will probably feel a bit…strange. But, all you’ll have to do is say some words, and you’ll be back in your own body.”

"You promise?"

"Unreservedly."

“I guess if it’s the only way…”

“See, Stanley? Ms. Collins is willing to put aside outmoded Cartesian prejudices for the sake of knowledge - ”

“And getting me back in my own body?”

“- and getting her back in her own body. Don’t be so… _closed-minded_.” Ford smiled.

“Ugh,” Stan dragged a hand down his face. “But, why do we have to put her in  _my_ body. You're the one with the deluxe head meat. You've gotta have some extra room in that giant brain of yours for another person or two. Or are you worried about having a girl see all your weird nerd thoughts?"

Ford blushed, "Nonsense, of course I'd be more than willing to have Ms. Collins inside me -"  
  
"Oh god, Sixer..."

"- and subsequently go inside Ms. Collins -"

"Seriously..?"

"- But someone who knows what they're doing has to stay out here in case there's some kind of problem."

" _Fine_. Fine. As long as it’s only five minutes. After that, I’m chugging this cough syrup and _you_ can deal with Lobster Queen.”

“Excellent!” Ford crossed the room, and dragged Stan and Evelyn into the center of the circle of candles, which he proceeded to light using a book of matches drawn from the nether recesses of his coat. The circle lit, he laid a piece of baling twine on Stan’s shoulder, and one across the open compact.

“What the heck is this?” Stan touched the twine on his shoulder.

“String. I promise, It’s vital. Without it, you could be rendered completely abstract, or worse, simply float away. It’ll keep you…well, you. The same goes for you, Ms. Collins.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to move it.”

“Now,” said Ford, running his index finger down the open pages of the book, “this should be the correct set of commands.”

He cleared his throat.

“Ahem. MY BROTHER EQUALS OPEN BRACKET OPEN QUOTES STANLEY PINES CLOSE QUOTES CLOSE BRACKET SEMICOLON ENTER. MY BROTHER DOT APPEND OPEN PARENTHESIS MS. EVELYN COLLINS CLOSE PARENTHESIS SEMICOLON ENTER.”

Stan looked down at himself, “I don’t feel anyth-”

“PRINT MY BROTHER”

Without any of the fanfare accompanying the night’s previous spectral activities, the reflection in the compact mirror winked out momentarily before returning, minus one woman. At the same time, Stan winced like someone who’s either taken a shot of very bad medicine or very good liquor. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, clutched his torso, and groaned.

“Do…does he…do I always feel this awful?”

 Ford smiled, “That would be the chowder.”

 


	10. Two heads are better than one

Stan pressed his palms into his temples.

“Let’s make this quick. It’s starting to feel a little crowded in here.” He blinked hard and his voice seemed to shift from 1/4-down to pea gravel, “ _You’re telling me. I…I remember…the sixties. In Jersey_. _Oh my god...s_ _o sweaty._ ” He shuddered.

Ford once again began scribbling notes.

“Remarkable. Not only are you sharing physical sensations, you’re able to share memories! After only a single command! I mean,” he chuckled, “clearly this is a highly unstable configuration for any being accustomed to four dimensions or fewer. But, wouldn’t it be _fascinating_ to find out whether the inevitable temporal psychosis is permanent…”  

“C'mon, Ford!”

“What...? Oh. Of course.”

He hesitantly crossed a final t in his notebook, placed it back in his pocket, and picked the worn parchment up off the floor. “As I promised, Stan – uh…Ms. – um , Stan…velyn? As I promised, this should only take a minute. Simply place your hand on Mrs. – well, I suppose it’s technically Ms. Collins for the time being. Although,” he stroked his chin,  “she’s also, well, _you_ at the moment, which touches on some very complex philosophical issues, so perhaps for the sake of clarity…”

“Ford!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He handed Stan the parchment. “Simply place your hand on…the subject, and repeat the incantation using the slight modification I’ve added to the margin.”

Stan took the parchment and glanced over it. Without warning, he looked up, frowned, and clacked his teeth together sharply.

“ _Are these…dentures?_ ” He smiled. “ _You know, you really should have told me you were falling apart before I agreed to this_.”

The smile dissolved as he put his hands on his hips, “Look, they don’t exactly have dental at La Modelo. A guy's lucky if he only leaves his teeth in that place. And _you_ should have told me about the rest of your little date with Señor Circus before _I_ agreed to this. Believe me, lady, that’s one memory I could’ve done without.”

“ _I left as soon as I saw the woodchips!_ ”

“What, the giant plastic tube leading into his trailer didn’t tip you off?”

“ _If we’re going to play Dates of our Lives, then…at least I didn’t…I didn’t…wait, you just threw your dinner on the floor, yelled at her, and ran away? She gave you free pie! She was nice!_ ”

“She had twelve cats and a weird eye thing!”

“… _that she got at your…Murder Hut? Should I be concerned that you owned a Murder Hut_?”

Ford grasped him by the shoulders. “Please! Both of you! Try to focus. We may not have much time. The incantation.”

Their eyes met.

“ _Y_ _ou have really strong hands_.”

“Focus!”

“Okay, okay! _Geez, he really can be a pill_ ,”

“Sister, you don’t know the half of it.”

Ford frowned, turned his brother by the shoulders, and gave him a gentle shove toward the prone figure on the floor. “Let me know if you need any assistance with the Latin.”

“Relax, Sixer.” He said, kneeling beside the body, “Latin’s just what they were stuck with before they invented Italian, right? And I picked _that_ up from…uh… from some business associates without even trying. Lemme see this thing…” he tilted the parchment toward the nearest candle, placed a hand on the unconscious woman’s shoulder,and cleared his throat.

Overtone singing, also called throat singing, is a practice whereby one singer, through careful manipulation of natural resonating features between their diaphragm and surprised roommates, can produce what sounds like multiple tones. If you imagine a throat singer able to produce not only multiple tones, but multiple, anharmonic tones that also sound slightly annoyed with each other, you’ll have a decent sense of the noise that came out of Stan as he read aloud from the parchment.

_“Fidentus omnium._

_Magister mentium._

_Magnesium ad homium._

_Magnum opus._

_Habeas corpus._

_Inceptus Nolanus overratus pergit_

_in secundo visum!_

_Magister mentium!_

_Magister mentium!_

_Magister mentium!”_

As the spell reached its crescendo, the dancing shadows cast by the circle of candles flew across the floor and up the walls. A blue light of a menacingly familiar hue grew around the pair at the center of the room. In a rare fit of safety-mindedness, Ford sequestered himself behind the nearby closet door, peeking around it only after the glow subsided.

He found himself mostly alone in a dingy hotel room, looking at down at two softly breathing, deceptively peaceful figures. He made a note of the time, shot a worried frown at his unconscious brother, and felt a bit like the mark at a shell game, hoping he was right about where that nut had got to.

 


	11. A mind is a terrible thing to scape

Stan picked himself up, dusted himself off, and tried to remember what it was like to be a single lady in a small, seaside town. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized he was completely unable to relate to the delicate ironies of aging womanhood. Beside him, a refreshingly corporeal Evelyn Collins was checking to make sure her teeth were real. Stan took in his surroundings.

He was standing in the daylight version of the town he’d crossed to reach the Happy Clem. The colourful houses looked…well, colourful, without a trace of the looming menace from the night before. A cool, salty breeze blew in off the water and ruffled his springy gray hair. Above him, seagulls wheeled in wide circles across a clear, blue sky. In spite of all the sunshine, fresh air, and whimsical maritime architecture, something struck him as not quite right. For one thing, the two of them seemed to be the only people in town. There was something else strange about the scene around him, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Tooth-check finished, Evelyn turned to him. “So, if I understood your brother right, this is the physical manifestation of my subconscious mind?” She looked around. “To be honest, I was expecting more hot guys.” She shrugged. "I guess it could be worse.”

Stan frowned. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. We’ve still got work to do. Where do you think we’re gonna find your mother in all this?”

“I think I may have an idea,” said Evelyn, setting off in the direction of Batavia and Main.

“Ugh. Wait up,” Stan called, eventually falling into step beside her. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, when Stan froze mid-stride. He craned an ear to the sky, and when a seagull cried twice, started counting to himself, “one dollar-fifty, two dollar-fifty, three dollar-fifty...”

“What on earth are you doing?”

He’d made it up to the price of a decent meal when they both heard the same seagull cry again in the exact same manner.

“Okay,” said Evelyn, “so a bird makes the same noise twice. I’m not sure that really merits the whole auctioneer routine.” But Stan had already started back at one dollar-fifty. Evelyn tapped her fingers impatiently on her thigh and looked around them while he continued.

At the same point where he’d stopped counting before, the same seagull cried twice. Not only that, but Evelyn noticed that its flight through the sky described an unmoving, continuous circle. The whole town, seagulls, cool breeze and all seemed to be stuck in a roughly twenty-second loop. She snorted.

“Makes sense. Not like anything in the real version ever changes.”

“Sheesh. A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Well, if I’d known I was going to have guests, I’d have tried to make this more of an _experience_ ,” she snapped. A less companionable silence fell, which she broke with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just, this is some pretty personal stuff, and I’m, well, I’m definitely not used to being _this_ open with other people. It’s one thing to tell a guy your life story, it’s another to have him kicking tires in your subconscious.”

“Fair enough. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, apparently mine had crabs.”

“Yeah, I guess that– wait, what?”

“Yep. Great big crabs with my head on ‘em. And bats, too _._ ”

“Huh. That’s…actually somewhat reassuring.”

They resumed walking. After a few minutes, they turned a corner and there was the Happy Clem, looking snug and quaint in the midmorning light.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” said Evelyn flatly. “I cannot wait to see what’s inside _this_ place.”

“Then why wait?” said Stan, walking on ahead. He pulled open the front door and nearly pitched headlong into the abyss on the other side. Evelyn hauled him back onto the street by a handful of jacket. “Whoa. Watch that first step.”

They both peered through the door into the darkness. Evelyn squinted.

“I wish we’d brought a flashlight.”

“Hey, good idea!” Stan held his hand out, and with a poof! a black, shiny flashlight the size of a baguette appeared out of thin air and landed in his upturned palm.

“Whoa, that’s….are you… are you magic like your brother?”

“Oh, I’m _magic_ , baby.” He paused. “But not like that. Let’s just say here in the mindscape, there’s a bit more power to positive thinking. Why don’t you try for yourself?” 

Evelyn looked at him sceptically, but held her hand out nonetheless. With a poof!, a black, shiny baguette the size of a flashlight appeared out of thin air and landed in her upturned palm.

Stan’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh. That’s weird. You hungry, or something? Well, we really only need the one, anyway.” He pushed the ‘on’ button and shone the flashlight’s beam across the interior of the Happy Clem. The barroom appeared completely normal, save the total absence of a floor. Tables, stools, even the bar itself were suspended in midair. Pointing the flashlight straight down failed to reveal any bottom to the pit stretching out before them. Evelyn put her arm through the door and released the baguette. She’d counted silently to thirty-two by the time a dull thud announced its safe arrival on whatever the heck was down there.

“Well, at least I can safely say I have a deep mind.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stan said, continuing to sweep the hotel’s interior with the flashlight. “But do you really think ol’ Marge is in here somewhere?”

“Big, dark hole full of secrets in the middle of my sleeping, vulnerable mind? Sounds like her kind of scene. But how do we get in?”

Stan held the flashlight on the wall opposite them. Running up to the ceiling and down to…wherever was a caged safety ladder with a padlocked entrance hatch. Evelyn scratched her head.

“Well, that would be helpful if we could reach it. But there must be thirty feet betw-”

She was cut off by Stan, who’d slowly edged away from the door before barrelling into her at full speed, grabbing her around the waist and jumping. They landed in a screaming heap on an eight-top about six feet from the door.

“Holy hand-grenades, Fosbury! Nice air, but maybe a little warning next time?!”

“Nah,” huffed Stan, catching his breath, “warnings only make you tense and sweaty. Best to just get it over with. Although,” he looked at the gap between them and the ladder, which was now a mere twenty-four feet, “we’re probably gonna have to do that again. Try to think non-perspirey thoughts. Don’t want you all slippery.” He walked back across the table and got into position for a running start.

“Wait!” Evelyn yelled. She held her hand out and frowned in concentration. After a few seconds, a gun-mounted grappling hook poofed into existence.

Stan relaxed out of his best triple-threat stance and grinned.

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about!” He held out his own hand, which he opened and closed rapidly. “Gimme!”

“Nuh uh. One tandem jump is enough for me. You can make your own, right?” She turned, aimed the grapple at the ladder, and fired. Its barbed hooks caught in the metal cage and seemed to hold when she tugged. She pressed a button near the grip that said ‘retract’ and streaked across the room, hitting the cage with a graceless “oof”, and clinging there. She unhooked the grapple, raised the gun in the air, and brought it down hard on the padlock. The hatch swung open and she took hold of the ladder. With a deep breath, she began descending into darkness. A clang, followed by the whistling of a large body moving at speed, followed by a thud and muttered oath told her that Stan was close behind.

 


End file.
